


Tell Me About It

by posingasme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Big Brother Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Injury Recovery, No Wincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-09-06
Packaged: 2018-08-11 21:11:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7907770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/posingasme/pseuds/posingasme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The brothers are already suffering a strain in their relationship, when a monster effectively shuts down Sam's ability to communicate. His injury leaves him broken and silent, but they're the Winchesters. All they need is their eye rolls and bitchfaces, right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Angry Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for anon.

Dean was never going to get that image out of his head. It was there every time he closed his eyes. Long after Sam had recovered-and, dammit, he would recover!-Dean would still feel that twist in his stomach, that helplessness.

The son of a bitch that did it was dead, but the damage was done. Castiel was in the wind again, and nothing else seemed to work, so all he could do was sit and watch his brother suffer.

After two days of barely meeting one another's eyes, now they were staring across a room at one another. After two days of not knowing what to say to each other…

Dean cleared his throat. “Okay. Look, we've had worse. Right?”

Sam glowered at him darkly.

He sighed. “Easy for me to say, right?” Immediately, he cringed. “Obviously that wasn't-I mean, literally easier than…”

This was the time Sam should have piped up with some sarcastic remark. He didn't. Instead, he slumped further onto the motel bed and looked away from Dean entirely.

Dean was having trouble breathing. He knew it was all in his head, but he could barely look at Sam without his own throat closing off. “Sammy? It's temporary. Okay? And-and I know I'm not exactly your favorite person right now, but I'm all you got.”

Sam just glared at the wall, then closed his eyes and lay down with his back to his brother.

He was always all Sam had. For that matter, Dean was both Sam's favorite and his least favorite person. There just wasn't anyone else. All their friends were dead.

The shuddered breath Sam took made his heart ache. Seeing his kid brother hurt was infuriating. Seeing him cry just destroyed him. He wished he could kill that damn monster again, just for that tiny sob Sam had just let escape.

He took a breath, to prove to himself that he could. “I know it hurts, man. I'm so sorry. If I had gotten to you sooner somehow…” He let his own voice fade out. He swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I'm going out for some supplies. If we're holing up here for a little…” He didn't bother continuing. Sam knew what he was saying.

Sam always knew.

And that was what he was going to have to be for Sam. A boy he knew better than he knew himself, yet a man with such a depth of will that even Lucifer was no match for it...Dean was going to have to interpret his thoughts until this was better somehow.

This would be a lot easier if Sam weren't so angry. But that was all part of what made him Sam. His little brother had been livid long before the hunt that had shattered every bone in his right hand, snapped his left wrist, slashed open his belly, and crushed his larynx.

***

It was reminiscent of the times the Trickster had played with them. It had started with an easily diagnosed case of hunter's burnout. They had taken several miserable cases in a row, the kind that felt like losses even though they had ganked the bad guy. It had weighed on them both.

Sam had begun snapping at him about his drinking again. Dean had snarled back about Sam's pecking. Dean had pushed them harder, hoping to get to a win. Sam had called him reckless and told him he was being insouciant. That had reminded him of Castiel, and not in a good way, which had made him irritable about Castiel's latest transgressions and absence. He proceeded to bitch about angels in general, and something about that had pissed off Sam.

He didn't get that at all. “I thought if we were all in agreement about one thing, it was that angels suck. Great big jackasses with wings.”

“Maybe some of them. But Cas has always-”

“Don't talk to me about Cas. I'm done worrying about him. He's his own problem now.”

“He pulled both our asses out of Hell, Dean! Remember Hell? Fun times with your buddy Alistair? Or are we going to pretend that was no big deal? Because I'm pretty sure I first noticed you couldn't go without a drink in the morning around about the time Cas yanked you out of the Pit!”

“Under orders. And don't you talk to me about Alistair.”

“Don't talk to you about Cas. Don't talk about Alistair. Don't talk about Lisa or Ben. Don't talk about the drinking. About Dad or Bobby, or Kevin or Charlie. All of our friends are dead. All of our old enemies are dead. I killed Alistair for you, you know!”

Dean threw his hands up. “Where the hell is this coming from? That was ages ago! Literally! The world has ended twice since then!”

“Everyone we know is dead, except Crowley and Cas, and I don't know why we haven't taken care of the Crowley problem seasons ago!”

“Crowley's been useful a dozen times over. We couldn't have ganked Roman without him. Couldn't have gotten rid of the Mark-”

“You're welcome, by the way!”

They had gone on like that for almost an hour. It was as though every fight they had ever had was playing on repeat, all at once. Dean knew he was at least as much to blame for all of these things as Sam was, but he couldn't seem to stop shouting back. It wasn't until Sam referred to him as the self-Righteous Man that it finally occurred to him that he literally couldn't stop shouting back. It took great effort, but he forced himself into a calmer tone.

“Sam, stop for a minute. Just for a minute. Can you?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Can I? Can I what?”

“We're on a case, and we've just spent the whole morning screaming at one another about things that happened years ago. You don't think that's a little weird? God, Sam, stay focused! Keep your head in the game!” What was he even saying now?

But Sam stared at him hard, and shook his head as if to clear it. “No. No, you're right. This isn't...Something isn't right. I mean, you're not right about those other things, but this isn't right.”

So between snipes at one another that felt reflexive and defensive, they finally tracked down the monster who fed on righteous anger, who normally enjoyed sitting in the halls of Congress and observing protests against certain health clinics, but who had settled for joining a particularly drama-laced PTA board, and caused two homicides over the formatting of the volunteer contact spreadsheet, before Sam and Dean had arrived to kill it.

Unfortunately, during the case, they learned that the monster simply riled up thoughts and emotions that already existed, until they came to a delicious fever pitch. Neither brother could deny that the things said between them hadn't been lying dormant in their minds, regardless of Dean's insistence that they each get a do-over. So when their next hunt just a few towns over had ended with Sam nearly separated from his head, it was the latest, most horrible in a string of very bad days.

And as far as Dean could tell, the streak wasn't ending anytime soon.


	2. Keep Swinging

By day two of sitting, Dean realized he was silently cataloging Sam's various dirty looks. 

There were a lot of them. 

For example, that one there was meant to express complete disgust with Dean's choice in cinema. He sighed and turned to him. “Well, what the hell do you want to watch then?” he snapped. “There's golf or this.”

That tiny widening of those fiery hazel eyes, the small shake of the head, that eyebrow...That meant even golf was better than this. 

He sighed again, and flicked off the television altogether. He lay there for a moment, then cleared his throat. “You know, I was pretty good at golf. That year you...Anyway.” He glanced at Sam to find that he was actually listening, and that Dean's sudden change in subject and tone had softened the look of frustration on his brother's face. He hurried forward. “Not that I had much clue what I was doing. But apparently our obsessive tendencies extend to sports too. Neither of us ever got the chance to find that out before. I mean you, you played some soccer, and I wrestled for like two months or something, but I never got to really tune in and learn a game before, you know?” He laughed shakily. “Lisa tried to get me to do softball, but that reminded me of that djinn dream all those years back. You probably don't remember.”

But Sam was nodding. The frown was becoming empathetic instead of exasperated. Dean called that a win. 

“Besides,” he huffed, “at least with golf, I had a weapon in my hand. Irons, right? Don't think a baseball bat is going to do much if a ghost sneaks up on me, and most other things, it would only slow down. So golf. Now that I think of it, I have no clue if irons have any iron at all in them. Could be like that Iron Man movie when he's like ‘more of a titanium alloy,’ or whatever.”

To his surprise, Sam have a tiny snort of amusement, which encouraged him. The younger man opened his mouth and gestured to it with his bandaged wrist. He still could barely move his right hand. 

Dean jumped up quickly. “Water? Painkiller?”

Sam nodded at both with lowered eyes. 

“Dude.” He scrambled to get the medicine. “You can't be a bitch about this. If you need something, you need it. You probably needed it a half hour ago. Don't be stubborn just because you don't like that I'm the one getting it for you.”

In protest, Sam tried to rasp out a syllable, then choked and began to cough. 

Dean cringed. “Dude, you gotta stop trying to talk,” he mumbled, as he lifted the glass to Sam's lips. It was the first time he had done that in two days without earning himself a glare from Sam. The sigh was progress. After some fumbling, they managed to get the painkiller down. 

It was exhausting, and when it was over, Sam lay down in defeat. 

Dean watched him sadly. “Sammy, I'm so sorry. I'll pray for Cas if you think it'll help. I just don't know if we can trust him. He’s been in a pretty bad place since we found out he's got residual grace from Lucifer in him.”

His brother shook his head, and mouthed the word no. 

He nodded and sat on the bed beside him. He was relieved that Sam agreed. He hated seeing his brother in pain, but he wasn't dying, and they could work this out. He just didn't want Sam to think it was mere obstinance that kept him from calling to their once and future friend.

Sam knew better than anyone that the effects of having been used as a vessel, especially Lucifer’s, were unpredictable, and to find out Castiel had tainted grace left in him, which was twisting his perceptions of reality...It was better for everyone that he go back to heaven for meditation or yoga or whatever the hell angels with bad mojo did to purge the taint of Lucifer. 

And there had never truly been any other angel they could trust. “Just us then, right? You and me against the world, like always.”

For the first time in several days, Sam gave him a tiny smile, and Dean felt as though someone had opened a window to let in the sun and fresh air. 

Speaking of which…

He stood to yank open a window, and launched into a story about the first time he played golf and his buddy from work kept telling him he looked like he was swinging a machete or something instead. 

It was good to hear Sam laugh.


	3. Pokey Petri

Sam was smirking at him. Dean could probably feel it, even though he wasn't looking. He clearly took it as encouragement, because he kept going. “So remember how we compared notes after Ruby and the-the upper management douche-nozzles in Heaven screwed with your voicemail, and you heard me tell you some stupid ass crap I didn't actually say?”

His brother rolled his eyes. How could he forget? That was probably the lowest point of his entire life. He was just grateful that road trips got boring enough for them to hash out everything eventually, or Sam might still think Dean had said, and meant, those awful things.

“Yeah, so I don't remember most of what I've told you and what I haven't about the times we got ourselves separated.” Dean threw his tumbler back and drained his whiskey. He was leaning back in the chair, his feet on his bed, facing where Sam was propped up on pillows on the other. “But I ever tell you about freaking Gumby?”

Sam stared, then shrugged a little. What the hell was a Gumby?

Dean nodded. “Yeah. So Gumby. The cartoon. The clay-the thing that's not a cartoon, because it's made outta clay.”

Stop motion animation was probably what Dean was talking about, but Sam really couldn't be sure, considering how much Dean had drunk already.

“So when I got screwed up on ghost sickness, I was trying to calm down while you were out messing around with the ghost or whatever.”

Trying to cure him, Sam wanted to say. Not messing around. Trying to save the big baby from literally scaring himself to death.

“I had the television on, and I'm watching the cartoon clay thing, and there's the horse, Petri or something. It's not Petri. It's nothing like Petri. I think that's a dinosaur.”

Sam had mostly stopped trying to follow the messy train of thought, and instead simply sat back and enjoyed the fact that Dean was even talking. It was strange, and wonderful, in a very weird way. Maybe Dean wasn't making much sense, but he was trying to share memories and thoughts with him, and he appreciated that.

It was also pretty funny. “Maybe Pokey was the dinosaur. Was Petri the horse?”

He shrugged to remind his drunk brother that not only did he not have any clue what they were talking about, but he wouldn't be able to say so even if he did.

“Oh. Right. Sammy, did you ever think maybe you got taller than me, was it because you always ate growing up, even if it was crap, but I didn't?”

Sam jerked to attention. In spite of the poor grammatical structure, he was fairly certain he had understood that correctly. He frowned at his brother.

“Not because you were, because it wasn't your fault, of course. I'm not saying that. Just something I wondered once or twice.”

He badly wanted to ask Dean to elaborate.

He didn't need to. Dean was drunk enough to keep going on his own. “You're what? Three inches more? Taller? So pissed when we were kids. When you passed me. I was so proud of you and so pissed you passed me. Pissed me.”

Sam screwed his face up at that.

But Dean didn't notice. “And I didn't think of it then, except to wonder how you did that when all you ate was truckstop hot dogs. Because you were mostly made outta truckstop hot dogs. Let's be clear on that. Coffee too. So I was thinking, where the crap-How'd he grow so big? But I wasn't thinking so much why didn't I. You know? Not till later.”

It was ridiculous trying to listen to this rambling stream of consciousness. But Sam was sure there was some important puzzle piece here that he had been looking for, in his unending attempts to figure Dean out.

Dean shook his head. “Stupid, right? But I did think of it later. Like, would I have got so big and smart as you if I'd been more-if I'd been…”

Taken care of. That was what Dean was trying to say. If Dean had been taken care of the way Sam had been, would he have been a stronger, healthier person? It occurred to Sam that Dean didn't really mean physiologically. He meant emotionally. Psychologically.

“Just stupid things I think of sometimes. No big deal. Just if I had…”

If Dean had had a Dean. Sam’s heart ached suddenly. Dean hadn't had the benefit of a caretaker big brother. He had been a warrior since before kindergarten. John hadn't known how to raise sons by himself, but he knew how to prepare soldiers. It was the best he could do, so he did it as well as he could. But Sam had always had Dean. Dean had only had John.

The boots were coming off now, and that was generally Sam's clue that Dean was near to passing out. But he kept talking as he fumbled about undressing. “You're mad at me about a lot of crap. I know. I deserve it. But I never wasn't…” He yanked off the stubborn jeans that seemed to be fighting back. Then he blinked hard at them and sat on the bed to steady himself. “I'm not brushing my teeth. So I'm going to be disgusting in the morning. Just to warn you.”

Sam had figured the bathroom sink was at least three steps too far away for his brother's current state.

“Anyway, I was saying something about I'm sorry.” He lay back on his bed hard, then sighed. “I don't know what I'm sorry about, but I'm real sorry, Sammy. Stop hating me, okay? You're all I got, because I'm all you got. I got rid of everybody else, even Benny, because you needed me. So don't hate me anymore, Sammy. I'm sorry about whatever I need to be sorry about. Tell me in the morning if that was the right thing to be sorry for. You're not talking much tonight.”

It was under thirty seconds later when the snoring began. Sam smiled fondly at the big baby.

He was sorry too.


	4. Go

They made it through the second season of Game of Thrones, and Sam could practically feel Dean's cabin fever wafting off him. So after an exhausting attempt at a shower, while Dean was bandaging his hands again, Sam pointed out that the gash at his guts was healing well. He could indulge in a few syllables here. It came out as a croak, but didn't hurt so badly if he didn't speak too much all at once.

“Go?” he suggested.

The green eyes flicked up at him with intense hope. “Yeah? You think tomorrow we could...I mean, we can stay as long as you need, man. Don't hurry on my account. This is a vacation. I'm all for watching television and drinking a few more days if-”

“Go,” Sam said firmly. “Bunker.”

Relief poured off of Dean in waves. He instantly possessed more energy, and his gray face took on a bit of color. “Yeah, okay. If you want.” He finished wrapping Sam's right fist, and moved on to the left wrist. “It's funny, isn't it? We never stayed anywhere long enough for me to learn a town real well, right? Now that we've been stuck here for two weeks, near to three, I've learned every side street around this stupid motel. I shopped in actual freaking grocery stores. I haven't done that in any town but where the bunker is.”

Sam snickered at him.

“Except when I was with Lisa. I remember she sent me out for some stuff once, and-Well, in my defense, I wasn't exactly at my best after you jumped outta the frying pan, dude. So I stood there and stared at the shelves of this convenience store for like ten minutes before I realized that wasn't what Lisa meant by grocery shopping.”

The younger man snorted. He would have to tell Dean one day about being utterly confused the first time Jessica had asked him to pick up dishwasher detergent for her apartment, and tried to explain to him that it was different from hand washing detergent.

Dean sat back with a smile. The promise of a drive back to the bunker tomorrow had restored his good humor.

It would take them at least fourteen hours, more with the frequent stops Sam would probably need, and Sam wouldn't be able to take his turn driving, of course. But Sam knew his brother didn't mind. As long as he was on the road, Dean was content. And Sam finally felt like he could handle the trip, if only because he knew Dean needed to be on the move.

“Sammy?”

He looked up to see that Dean was suddenly up and frowning at him. He sighed. That hadn't lasted long. He shrugged in question.

“You ever think maybe we really did break Cas?”

Sam sighed. He appreciated that Dean was losing his mind sitting still all this time. But the random things he was bringing up lately...Was this how Dean's thoughts worked all the time? Skipping from one thing to another with no clear segue? It must be exhausting to be Dean.

Dean was milling about the room, picking up this and that without much focus. “He was perfectly happy as a regular angel dick. He liked his job, right? And now he gets hung up and tortured every other Thursday, whenever he's not getting himself brainwashed or manipulated. I can't help feeling a little responsible for that. If Uriel or some other angel had been the one to yank me outta Hell, do you think Cas would've been spared all the bullshit?”

Dead. Castiel would have been dead by now. He would have been completely blindsided by Uriel and the other angels working to bring about the rise of Lucifer. But he couldn't voice his thoughts, so Sam sat back and listened to Dean’s latest stream of consciousness. At least the man was sober. It didn't really matter so much. Dean was determined to blame himself for everything that had ever happened to everyone they had ever known, drunk or sober.

This particular rant gave way to worries about Garth. Was he being a good little dorky werewolf? If not, were they going to have to go back and put silver in him? He knew he would if he had to, but, God, it wouldn't be easy. That kid was a hopeless mess, but like so many others, he was definitely their mess.

Sam felt his eyes slipping closed as he listened. It was too nice to have Dean talking to waste any of it on unconsciousness, but he couldn't help it. The shower alone had worn him out, and Dean had made him take more painkiller…

“You asleep, man?”

He could hear the murmur, but couldn't open his eyes to deny that he was out for the night.

Dean sighed. It sounded like he was finally settling in the other bed.

The television was on very low, but he suspected it was probably just on for company, since Sam himself wasn't much of that these days. It sounded like it was in Spanish. Dean had learned quite a bit from the days he had spent with a broken leg, watching telenovelas with Bobby, but Sam didn't think Dean still kept up with any of those.

Then Dean was speaking, in a low voice Sam knew he wasn't meant to hear. “Kid, you terrify me, you know that?” He sighed again. “It's stupid to say you're my best friend. Because who else is there, right? You'd laugh at me. But there are days, right, when we aren't brothers, or hunting partners. Some days, we're just friends. I'm four years older, man. I'm never going to be able to completely forget that you're my kid brother. But some days, I just like that you get me. That, for all your eye rolls and snark, you enjoy my company. You could have gone off on your own. I'd have bitched about it, but you could have. And you haven't. Not permanently anyway.”

He had tried a few times. But something always brought him back, and it wasn't really the hunting. Sam loved hunting. He was secure enough to admit that now. He had never wanted it chosen for him. But now that it was his own choice, he embraced the life.

“I know it doesn't make a lot of sense, okay? That's why I'm saying it now, because you'd be a bitch if I tried to say it to you when you were awake.”

Sam held back a smirk.

“But I get to where we're just friends working together, and it's great, and then you go and get yourself bloodied up, and it kinda slams into me that this is my kid brother. That I'm seeing my kid brother’s blood. And I can't...Dammit, Sammy. You're the best damn hunter I ever knew, better than Dad even. And if I gotta be in the heat, there's nobody I trust at my back like you. But when you get hurt, it's suddenly not my partner, not my friend, bleeding out. It's my kid brother.”

It occurred to Sam that he had no way of knowing how often Dean whispered to him at night. Had he done it all their lives?

“I can't help thinking I failed you. I should've been getting you as far away from the things that creep around in the dark as I could. I know what's out there, and it's one thing to throw myself in front of trouble, to go toward danger and monsters in order to help other people. But when I see you hurt, I can't help...I'm your big brother. It's my job to get between you and anything that could hurt you. So why are you hurt so often? Obvious answer is that I suck at my job. I kick ass as a hunter. But that's not my first job. And you're lying there now, in pain, because I screwed up and let you down. Again. In the end, it don't matter what monster of the week took you down. You're my kid brother. If you're hurt, that's on me.”

The whispers stopped for a long time, and Sam thought Dean had finally fallen asleep.

Then he spoke again, in a voice that revealed to Sam that he had been weeping in silence. “I'll never be the man Dad wanted me to be. Hell, I'll never be the man God wanted me to be. But I accepted that a long, long time ago. It's only now hitting me that I'll never be the man you need me to be, and that's a far worse failure than any of the rest of it. Watching you suffer since this last hunt...I'd give anything to have you yell at me again. To tell me all the ways I've screwed up again. I'll argue with you, but only because I got too much stubborn pride to tell you you're right. My best ain't good enough, Sammy. It's been eating me up since this last hunt. It's all I can think everytime I see you hurting or struggling. I tried my best, and my best will never be good enough.”

The television snapped off, and Sam could hear him sighing.

“You're everything I got, man. And ever since you stopped talking, I've filled in the blanks for you. But you'd never say that. You'd never say...It don't matter. I can't do this anymore, Sam. I'm getting you to the bunker. When you're well enough, we’ll talk. I can't watch you die again, Sam. I nearly lost you this time. Again. Billie said no do-overs this time, and I believe her. I can't watch you die again. We can't just be friends again. I'm your big brother, and I got a job to do. I can't go forgetting that, just because you're a badass grown hunter. If my best ain't good enough to keep you safe, I gotta get gone. It's selfish, riding with you, knowing I'm not going to be able to save you one day. We’ll talk. I gotta sleep now, but we’ll talk…”

Sam lost his battle with consciousness then, and he couldn't be sure, but he thought perhaps Dean did too.

It was amazing how in synch they were, even when it came to crying themselves to sleep.


	5. Strong, Silent Type

The trip home was miserable. But at least they were moving. Dean's spirits were up, and he blasted Styx for the world to hear, until he could see Sam fading, and then it was a soft rock station so his brother could sleep. Finding something that Sam could eat was even harder on the road than it had been the last few weeks, and mostly, Sam waved away offers for food anyway. Inevitably, they had to stop for the night, and Dean used the last of his cash to fill the tank and book a room. 

Sam looked entirely defeated, as if having to stop to rest the night was a personal failure. 

“Dude, it's cool. It's a long freaking drive. We might've stopped anyway. And look. It's a good place.” It was only a good place because it was the only place within a hundred miles, but Dean didn't mention that. “Pool, Sam. It's got a pool.”

The younger man made a strange face and shrugged. 

“No. We don't, usually. But we're not in a hurry, right? So let's do it for once! It's still plenty early. I'll go out to a thrift place, get us some trunks. You might not actually be able to swim, but you could relax. Come on.”

A crooked smile came over Sam's face, the one that said he was trying not to have fun, because it was Dean's idea. At least, that was how it was categorized in Dean's mind. 

“See? We’ll get you settled, and I'll be back quick, and we can just relax.”

The thrift store was a treasure trove. Dean found the trunks, then wandered around, just looking. He knew Sam was napping anyway. He picked through the cassette tapes until he found a bluesy rock album for a quarter, and an Aerosmith single for a dime. He thought of playing the single on repeat just to annoy Sam, and that was worth ten cents by itself. 

There weren't any jeans in Sam's size, which wasn't a surprise, but Dean was in the habit of always looking. He probably hadn't gone into a clothing store in his entire life without checking for jeans for Sam. There was a nice, charcoal AC/DC shirt, but it was only in a medium, so he moved on.

Dean always looked at the angel figurines. Something about them reminded him of Mary. “Which is stupid, since I know an angel personally,” he muttered. 

“Not that we talk often,” the familiar, deep voice responded. 

He whipped around to find Castiel smiling softly at him. “Never once!” he complained in a hiss. “All these years, you've never once appeared in front of me.”

“I think that’s simply untrue.”

“What are you doing here? You purge all the Satan juice? You normal again yet?”

Castiel raised an eyebrow. “Your concern is touching,” he said dryly. 

“Well?”

The angel sighed, and he brushed his fingertips lightly over the scarves hanging nearby. “I believe I'm free of the influence of my brother's residual grace,” he answered with caution.

Dean frowned. “You don't sound very sure of that.”

“It was...an interesting experience possessing even an ounce of the power of an archangel. I found it different from the time I was powered by the souls of Purgatory. Lucifer's grace was far more…” He breathed out a long sigh. “Intoxicating,” he finished at last. 

Two old women were staring at them from beside the fat computer monitors. Dean grabbed Castiel's arm and dragged him away. “Okay, okay. You're beginning to sound like a Manson groupie.”

Castiel blinked at him. 

“But you're good now? Can you heal?”

“I'm better, yes. I still feel something, but I'm much better. Are you hurt?”

“No. It's Sam. He's in a bad way. Can you-” The scene around them changed, and Dean stumbled. “Whoa! Warn a guy!”

Castiel apologized. 

Sam startled in the bed. “Dude!” he croaked reflexively. Then he winced and began to cough. 

“Sam,” Castiel sighed. He hurried to the man's side and placed his fingers on his friend’s forehead. Then he frowned. “What happened to you?” he demanded. 

Dean watched in horror as Sam tried to speak and failed. “What? What's wrong? Why isn't it working?”

Sam flexed his fingers, rotated his wrist. There seemed to be no more pain. But still, he was silent. They both turned to Castiel. 

The angel sat back. “It seems...It seems everything has been restored, but his voice is no longer repairable.”

“What?” Dean shrieked. “What-How can that be? You can bring someone back from the dead at full power! How can you not fix his voice?”

“Because…” Castiel frowned severely now. “Because he said no too many times.”

Sam’s eyes widened, and he leapt from the bed away from Castiel. Dean stared as his silent lips mouthed the name Lucifer. 

“Lucifer!” Dean turned to Castiel in fury. “Lucifer?”

Castiel shook his head. His blue eyes shone with mortification. “He...he left it there purposely!” he cried. “Lucifer! When he was expelled, he purposely left an ounce of grace, so that the next time I healed Sam, I would pass on his spite! Sam! Sam, I'm so sorry! Dean, it's gone now; I can't feel it. But I can't reverse what Lucifer has caused me to do. Only the archangel himself could do that. Sam, I'm so sorry!”

“You're saying he's healed up, but he’ll never talk again?” Dean shouted. 

“Sam, forgive me. I didn't know. The grace was there, but it wasn't affecting my mind anymore, and I thought it was dormant now, and…”

“And that son of a bitch left you booby trapped,” Dean growled, “because he knew you'd eventually go to heal Sam.”

“I suppose...I suppose it could have been far worse, Sam,” he murmured. “If he had wanted it to, it could have killed you instead.” He closed his eyes tightly. 

Sam sighed, and reached out to touch Castiel's arm. He made the angel look at him. “Lucifer,” he mouthed again, and took Castiel in his arms for a hug, ignoring his friend’s attempts at apologizing further. 

Dean took a deep breath through his nose to calm himself. “Any word on where we can find the bastard?”

Castiel shook his head miserably. “He's...As you say, he's in the wind. I will redouble my efforts to find him, but...Sam, if he chooses not to be found, there may be little I can do. Simply know that I will not stop until I've found him.”

Then Sam grabbed Castiel by the shoulders. He looked at Dean hard.

Dean swallowed. “He says...Cas, look. If you find him…”

Sam narrowed his eyes when Dean hesitated. 

He sighed. “Cas, Sam’s going to be all right. If you find Lucifer...Sam wants you to kill him. Don't...don't try to capture him just to try to force him to reverse this. He's…” Dean squeezed his own eyes closed for a moment, then strengthened his own voice to speak for Sam. “He's too dangerous.”

Blue eyes searched Sam's relentlessly, to be sure that Dean's interpretation of his silent thoughts was correct. Then he sighed. “I will do everything I can,” he promised. 

Sam smiled shakily, then tapped at his wrist and throat, and nodded. 

“Thanks for the heal, man,” Dean murmured. 

Castiel blinked hard against the sparkling in his eyes. “Yes. Well, I've unfinished business with an older brother of mine. Call to me if I'm needed, but otherwise...I will be hunting.”

This earned him a smile from both brothers, and then he was gone from the room. 

The silence was deafening. 

Dean looked back at the things he had dropped when arriving unexpectedly in the motel. “Sammy, I…”

But Sam shook his head. He locked eyes with his brother, and suddenly, it was as if Dean could hear every thought. 

“I know,” the older man murmured. “I know. He's punishing you for saying no. And that makes it worth it, because…” Dean began to smile sadly. “You win. So you win.”

Sam nodded at him, and the triumphant smirk on his face told Dean everything he needed to know. 

“I'm proud of you, little brother. And you were always the strong, silent type.”

The man's eyes became thoughtful, and he made a hesitant gesture, touching his finger to his ear, then his mouth. He met Dean's eyes again. 

It took just a moment before Dean understood. He gave a weary laugh. “You got it, Tiger.”


	6. Signed and Sealed

It took two weeks to catch a lead, then another before they finally found the elusive Legacy. They arrived just in time to even the odds between her and three ghouls. When the monsters dropped, she whirled on them, demanding to know what took them so long.

Sam had simply smiled.

Dean rolled his eyes, and wiped ghoul guts off of his weapon.

It was a strange dynamic, the three of them. But once they had gotten Eileen to the bunker, and Dean saw how she and Sam interacted, he was glad she was there.

The older Winchester had never been great at learning languages. His Latin was a perpetual work in progress, and his Spanish had mostly been gleaned from daytime television and pornographic scenes with tacos. But this one was different. This one made sense in his brain. It was just like signaling a partner during a hunt. This, he could do.

Eileen worked with them both for weeks, and in that time, she became family. Sam smiled more when she was around than Dean had ever seen before. After the first twenty days or so, it didn't shock Dean at all to note that Eileen was slipping into Sam's room at night instead of the one they had prepared for her use.

He had planned to talk to Sam about hunting, about his fears. But a third, and occasional fourth, when Castiel was about, made the danger far more manageable. And more and more, Dean and Castiel were heading out on their own to take care of the nasties in the world, while the two Legacies did their research back at the bunker. He and Sam still took hunts together, but the younger man was inclined to be home with his lover most nights.

It was amazing the way the brothers seemed not to miss a beat in their communication. Whether it was speech, facial expressions, a fist to the jaw, or crude signs, they were always able to express themselves well enough to get a point across.

Maybe one day they would find Lucifer, and force him to return to Sam what he had stolen. But if not, it would be all right. They were brothers. They were soul mates. They were best friends.

They would carry on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Comments are my bread and butter!!
> 
> ~Posing


End file.
